


Talons

by amazinglyhorribleegg



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Headcanon, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Inner Dialogue, Internal Monologue, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved, also ooc maxwell, but positive, slightly open ended, very ooc woodie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25305592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazinglyhorribleegg/pseuds/amazinglyhorribleegg
Summary: His voice lowered into something dangerous, something that made Maxwells' heart drop. "Not a word, do you understand?" he adjusted his grip, and pulled Lucy up so Maxwell could see her. "Unless you want to see how Lucy acts when she doesn't get what she wants."-=-ooc characters, heavy inner dialogue!TW!: explicit rape and panic attacks. Please stay safe!
Relationships: Charlie/Maxwell (Don't Starve), Lucy/Woodie (Don't Starve), Maxwell/Woodie (Don't Starve)
Kudos: 20





	Talons

It was widely understood that when someone left to their tent, especially before everyone else, it meant they wanted to be alone. It was never a spoken-of rule, but unless you were Wickerbottom making sure said person was feeling alright, or Webber looking for a hug, you generally left people to enjoy the small amount of privacy they did have.

Then again, Maxwell mused, it seemed like he always wanted to be left alone.

Not that that was specifically true. It had been so long since he had gotten any form of human contact, so long on that damned throne, that part of him had started to miss it. It was the soft touches he barely remembered, arms wrapped around Charlie with his nose in her hair, or her hands on his shoulders as she reached up for a kiss. His heart would clench at the memories, it happened every time he thought of her. He craved it, or any touch, for that matter.

But, with that, he also despised physical contact entirely. His skin burned, and he bristled whenever someone brushed past him, claws tight around the codex, shoulders raised as he attempted to keep his distance. Not that many people wanted to be around him in the first place. If it wasn't the other camp members reminding him of his past mistakes it was himself, rereading the list of things he did wrong, things he could have done to prevent it. If he had attempted to fight against Their order, if he had been honest with Charlie, if he had never picked up the Codex Umbra, if his suicide attempt back in '01 hadn't failed.

Those were dark memories, but they were the only ones that kept him company while he flipped through the crisp pages of the tomb, wrinkled and too frail, almost like himself. Although the Codex held power, too much power for him to understand, all it took was a strong grip to rip the paper out of its binding, crumpling and tearing through the Latin text.

Of course, it could always be put back together, but Maxwell wasn't too sure the same could be said for himself.

Perhaps these thoughts were a warning of what was to come.

He heard Wickerbottom put the children to bed, the thin flaps of his tent doing little to none against the outside noises. That being said, there was still quiet chattering at the campfire. If he focused he could hear Wickerbottom talk quietly to someone next to her, and the occasional creak of the crock pot told him that Warly had decided to clean it after dinner. Wolfgangs loud voice could have been heard from the opposite side of camp, and by the lack of response Maxwell could have only assumed the strongman was talking to Wes, laughing at his pantomimes. The two were old friends from the circus.

So was Maxwell, but he never dared speak of William Carter anymore, especially not his affiliation with the strongman and the mime, and especially not about his year and a half performing magic only children could be intrigued in.

Maxwell snapped out of his thoughts when he heard someone clear their throat - he was too busy thinking about how passively stupid William was to hear their footsteps in the dirt. It was followed by a rough yet softer voice, lowered to fit the night ambience, "Maxwell? Can I come in?"

it was Woodie, and the silhouette showed that he had Lucy with him as well. Not that he was one to judge. At least Woodie put Lucy away while he bathed, unlike Maxwell, who didn't trust Wilson not to open the sacred texts, or Willow not to burn it while he was at his most vulnerable.

"Do as you wish," came Maxwells usual response. Could it be considered usual, if he only had to say it a few times? It wasn't like camp members were bustling to get into his tent. He pushed the thoughts away once more, and realized that he was somehow much more distracted than he usually was. Woodie opened the tent and ducked in, taking a seat next to the entrance, but making sure to close the flaps behind him, even going as far as to cross one over the other, blocking out any light from the distant yet high campfire. Woodies' lantern was on the dimmest setting, and the light barely reached Maxwells face. "What brings you here?" Maxwell asked, attempting not to sound too stand-offish, even if his first instinct was to pull his feet away from the larger man.

Woodie rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepishly. "Nothing much, eh. I just wanted to pop in to say hello." Maxwell hummed in acknowledgment, not closing the book on his lap. There was a beat of silence, and then Woodie continued. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I'm just not too hot today. I wouldn't mind some company for a few minutes."

Maxwell sat up straighter, using his movement to excuse moving his foot from where it was touching the other mans knee. "And the camp members outside don't wish to accompany you in your mood?"

"They've mostly gone to bed now. It's just a few of 'em. None really wishing to talk to me in particular."

Maxwell hummed once more. He wasn't quite sure of Woodies intentions, or what he wanted from him, and it only made him more closed-off. He decided to let Woodie lead the conversation, if he wished to talk to him out of all people so much, and went back to idly scanning the Codex.

It was awkward for just a bit too long before Woodie continued. "You've been holding up alright, then?"

"I have no reason to be in a foul mood, now do I?" Maxwell responded. "I've been fairing alright, as well as one can do when killer hounds see you fit for a meal every few days."

Woodie huffed. "Yeah, still coming back from the last attack." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal loosely-covered silk on his forearm, assumingly covering a hound bite. "Lucy may fell trees like no other, but she ain't the best when it comes to fighting off a pack o' wolves." Maxwell flipped the page. He wasn't reading, not really, the action had become more of habit than anything. Focusing on the text for an extended period of time gave him headaches, but it was preferable to doing labour around the camp.

Woodies' voice managed to startle him, still, although he didn't show it outwardly. "So, Maxwell. You've had to been a person before all this. What was your life story like?"

Woodie scooted just a bit closer, and Maxwell realized he still had his grip on Lucy's shaft. He decided that he was overthinking it, like most other things that night. "Never one for being subtle, I take it?"

"Just trying to start conversation, you hoser," Woodie said, patting Maxwells leg and adjusting his seating. "But really, you had any friends? Family? Any true loves?"

Maxwell bristled, and swallowed down a crude sentence telling Woodie that he wasn't welcome in his tent. Maxwell wanted to turn to the night, looking for Charlie, but there was nothing but beefalo-scented sheets and a lantern in his space.

Woodie continued. "Lucy and I, we've always been close. Attached at the hip - sometimes literally!" he laughed to himself, Maxwell gritting his teeth and the now unwanted contact. Woodies' crossed leg was nearly on top of Maxwells outstretched one, moving as he spoke. "Some people ask me what we are. Friends, siblings, something more? And I always give Lucy a knowing glance and tell them, 'Yeah, something more alright'."

Maxwell truly didn't want to respond so he didn't, hoping that Woodie would eventually take the hint. Instead, he scratched his beard, glancing at the flaps of the tent. "Even if you wanted to find love here, there's not like there's many choices, eh?" He shifted once more, and Maxwell actively shifted away. "I mean, I've got Luce. But you? I think the only lady here close to your age is good ol' Wicker. Unless you're interested in men?"

Maxwell sighed, not letting his shoulders drop. "I do believe you've overstayed your welcome -"

"There's nothin' wrong with that!" Woodie put his palms up, raising his eyebrows. "But that'd open your options up quite a lot more. And to be honest, I feel like you've been aging pretty well for a man your age. How old are you, thirty-something?"

Maxwell knew that was a far-off number, just a bit too much so to be created out of kindness. He opened his mouth to speak, but Woodie put a large palm on his thigh, patting it as if it were a friendly motion. "You know, one problem I have with this arrangement is that my options with Lucy are quite limited. I mean, stress relief is a pretty much must in times like these, and what can she do? Sit around and look pretty?"

Maxwell went to get on his knees so he could leave is tent, mumbling something along the lines of "I do believe I need to talk to Wickerbottom." Woodie grabbed him by the shoulder and at him back down.

"Hey, Maxwell. Lets talk here. Man to man." Maxwell went to get up and Woodie pushed him down, a bit firmer. "I've been tense, and I've never seen you relax a day in your life. I'm sure you see how we can help each other?"

Woodies' palm burned into his shoulder, and Maxwell realized just how easily he could be overpowered. The man was a five-foot seven Canadian lumberjack, able to take down half the forest in a day. He was always working, unlike Maxwell, who was still recovering from the muscle atrophy the throne had given him. Thirty years of not being able to move an inch made it hard to even pick up an axe on bad days, not to mention pushing off another survivor. If he couldn't win against Wilson in a slap fight, he was afraid of what this man could do to him.

"I need to go -"

"Not so fast, eh?" Woodie pushed him down and before Maxwell could react he was laying on his back. He started to struggle, pushing up with his arms while kicking uselessly at the blankets with his legs. Woodie kept him still with just one hand on his chest. Maxwell started to grab for the hand, wishing he had taken off his gloves so his claws could do a little more damage. He opened his mouth to yell but Woodie covered it with his other hand. His voice lowered into something dangerous, something that made Maxwells' heart drop. "Not a word, do you understand?" he adjusted his grip, and pulled Lucy up so Maxwell could see her. "Unless you want to see how Lucy acts when she doesn't get what she wants."

Maxwell could only stare, small sounds still coming from his throat, hands still tightly wrapped around the others' wrist. Woodie adjusted more. A hand went for his belt. Maxwell closed his eyes tight.

_William hadn't stopped pacing in the last hour. Back and forth, as far as he could in his rented bedroom space. Every few laps he would turn towards his desk, reading the notes over and over until his brain was too full of anxiety to even read it, he still stared down at the messy writing._

_"Where is the muny?"_

_"You better pay up or there will be trouble!"_

_"I will find you!"_

_He couldn't pay it. He used his last dollar on magic supplies for his show. "I'll bring it after the show, I'm making money!" he kept repeating every time, but the letters only got worse and worse, meaner and meaner._

_His brothers letter sat at his bedside table, and he walked back to it to hold it between his fingers. The familiar writing calmed him, but only momentarily. His brother couldn't know. Couldn't figure out about what he got himself into. Every letter he sent about the twins, sending postcards of pictures of their first birthday, asking if he had 'made it big' yet, he always sent back the same reply. I love the twins, tell your wife I said hello, isn't Abigail just the cutest in that dress? He never mentioned how he went hungry most nights, never mentioned the hundreds of dollars in debt that kept piling up, never mentioned the angry landlord or the man on the other side of the letters._

_He had worried himself sick, heaving into the toilet between sobs, panic attacks waving over him that not even his brother could fix, even if he was in the same room as him and not thousands of miles away in a different city, with a different life._

_It wasn't until three AM that they had found him. Knocks on the door. William had froze, why did he freeze? Jump out the window, hide in the closet, call the police. He didn't do any of it._

_They pulled him out, threw him so hard it hurt his head. They pushed him against the bed._

_"If he has no money, then he will pay in other ways."_

_William closed his eyes and repeated his words like a mantra._

_"I just wanted to be a magician... I just wanted to be a magician..."_

Woodie stood on his knees, tucking himself away and pulling his jeans up. He cleared his throat.

"That was good. Just what we needed, eh, Lucy?"

Maxwell kept his eyes closed, still frozen. Something wet was cooling in uncomfortable places and he knew what it was but he didn't want to think about it. His pants were still down, his suit jacket was crumpled. There was a musky smell heavy in the room. Woodie patted his thigh and Maxwell jolted, holding back a humiliating whimper.

"I'll let you clean up in your own time, partner." He got up and went to leave the way he came. "Don't be stranger, alright? I think I'm okay with getting used to this."

He left, taking his axe with him. Maxwell listened to his footsteps distance, listened to the fire outside his tent crackle and pop, listened to the ambient noises of the Constant. If he was observant he could tell each sound apart, which came from real animals and which were whispers in the tree, created to add a level of uncertainty to newer prisoners.

He didn't do that. Instead, he lifted one arm up to cover his eyes, and started to cry.

* * *

Eventually he moved. He had to. There was still a life to continue, work that needed to be done, and the rest of the camp didn't need to know his vulnerability. He had spent so long perfection 'Maxwell', what once was a personality he made for the stage somehow turned into his life, the dark feeling in his chest and paranoia in the back of his mind all became second-nature to keep William from shining through the cracks.

It was different, though. He wasn't William, wasn't the poor sod who couldn't fend for himself. He was Maxwell. Maxwell was the one who got attacked.

He pulled up his pants and had to take a breath to compose himself. He needed a shower, needed to wash his clothes, needed to scrub at his skin until all the places he was touched would go away. But his boxers had long since dried, a mess that probably couldn't be washed out in the pond, and he had to get up soon if he wanted to make it for breakfast.

He made himself sit up, his body hurting in usual and unusual ways alike. The dull ache in his joints, tension pulling behind his eyes, a sharp pain when he sat a certain way -

He didn't want to think about it anymore.

Maxwell knew he was a disgusting, vile creature, worse than any monster in the Constant. He knew he fell nothing shorter than deserving what had happened to him, he always deserved it. Evicting him from the camp would never do enough, even though they knew that he would be forced into an endless loop of dying, he wasn't able to survive by himself in a world he created, it still wouldn't make up for the pain he had caused others. He briefly wondered if Woodies' act was a group plan. A way to get back at him. He would leave his tent and people would be staring, whispering, picking out his every flaw he attempted to hide that showed what happened the night before. He could imagine Wilson staring at his lopsided belt he forgot to readjust, imagine Willow snickering behind the rising flames of the fire, see them moving over in their seats so that Maxwell was forced to sit next to his attacker.

He scrubbed his eyes, hard, hoping there were no traces of his tears left. He straightened out his jacket as well as he could inside the small tent. Outside, many camp members had already awoken and started to chatter, and if they weren't already out, the savoury smell of bacon and eggs would be getting them out of bed shortly. He could hear Wigfrid get excited with Wolfgang, their naturally loud voices feeding off of each other. He heard Wilson call to Warly in time with the ice box opening and closing, meaning Wilson was helping him prepare the meals. He heard Webber run around, his spidery voice distinct from the others as well as WXs' robotic one. He heard his nieces' voice, high and hauntingly soft. Jack would want Maxwell to be out there protecting her. Their safety was always compromised, and the last thing he could do was attempt to keep his only family safe, even if he did everything in his power to stop Wendy from learning that fact.

With a final breath, Maxwell had climbed out of his too-hot blanket, and slowly opened the flaps to reveal the world outside.

It was the same as every other morning, he realized. Chilled air brushed past the branches of trees surrounding the camp, the ground was still wet with dew, the sun rose and the crockpots clanged and he heard Willow toss a log into the fire. It was almost as if he was expecting it to all be changed, the world altered and turned upside down, or perhaps the camp members experiencing the same horrors and fear he had been through, leaving them solemn and quiet.

Maxwell fixed his suit more thoroughly, adjusting his tie and dusting his pants. Webber went running past him, giggling up a storm and paying him no heed as Wendy caught up to the spiders' tracks, a threatening stick in hand. She had slowed down when she passed Maxwell, looking up at him with her big blue eyes, entering a stare of wits. Maxwell held his ground for the longest moment, raising his chin up to look down at her more severely, but he eventually lost. Her eyes never stopped wondering, looking, seeing more than she said, and Maxwell wasn't sure if it was because of their blood ties or because of her quiet nature that she could read him so easily. He knew, though, as he turned walk out of camp in the general direction of the forest to relieve himself, that Wendy wouldn't know what had happened.

When he came back to camp breakfast was starting. Some had already gotten up to get their meals, some were still sitting and waiting for the crowd to disperse. Thankfully, Maxwells usual spot wasn't taken, despite his absence. His seat was, unsurprisingly, at the very edge of one of the logs, beside Wickerbottom, where he could stick his big nose into the Codex Umbra and struggle through informal conversations in his own, grumbly ways. He had made his way to the food first, taking a stone dish the others had crafted and taking meager amounts. He never ate much, shown by his too-thin body nobody noticed through his suit but Wickerbottom had made worried glances toward in the past, and that morning was no different. His stomach was still in knots, and even the smell of Warly's impeccable cooking only untied it partially. Two strips of bacon and an egg, barely enough to feed a kid, he knew, but if he somehow managed to surpass the need to be sick by early afternoon he would have made sure to sneak a snack out for himself. He made his way back to his seat, greeting Wickerbottom and smiling back at Webber when the small boy greeted him.

It was easy enough to push the memories to the back of his head, let his paranoid thoughts of the others being able to see right through him slip through as if they were the same as any other day. Occasionally, Wigfrids loud cheering or fast movement out of the corner of his eye would have him jump, but he quickly smothered those actions and forced himself to keep his hands steady. He was exhausted, his eyes were sore, it hurt to sit, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to be around others when the guilt was slowly biting into his stomach like a hungry leech. But he was fine. He would survive, he had no option but to.

And then a warm hand patted him on the shoulder, large and calloused and Woodies' greeting pieced every nerve he had, ripped open fresh wounds he had been trying to hide for what felt like forever and no time at all. He nearly dropped his plate in shock, every muscle in his body tensing even after he managed to grab the plate securely. Woodie moved on and sat down by the fire but Maxwell couldn't relax, his fingers tightening around his plate, the spot where Woodie touched him prickling and crawling and he wished he could rip his own skin off. There was a tightness in his chest, almost as if he wanted to cry but not quite there, close enough to toss him off his track. The strong feeling of something inside of him, a disease, a parasite, tearing away at his body from the inside out until he rotted away, perhaps he already had. He jumped at every noise after that, from Webber yelping to Wortox clapping, even Wickerbottom turning the page of her book had his eyes darting towards her hand. Everything felt like a threat. He looked over at Woodie for as long as he could manage, but he didn't seem phased, pointing on his map with Winona, sharing words and thoughts that Maxwell couldn't take in properly, was too frightened to. He didn't want to be in the camp anymore, he didn't want Woodie to be in the camp with him, didn't want to see his red axe or his beard or the wood he chopped. Everything he did felt like a sickness that only he had caught.

Another hand grabbed his shoulder and it didn't matter that it was different, too thin and much more gentle, he still jumped, nearly onto his feet, and spun around with a horrified look and a ball in his throat, seeing Wilsons familiar eyes but still taking them as a threat.

"Woah, hey, Maxwell," Wilson put his hands up. "Didn't mean to startle you. You alright?"

Maxwell tightened his jaw and forced himself not to make a strained sound. "Yes, I'm fine," he hissed, using the only thing he had as a defence mechanism. Hatred burned in his veins, not for others but for himself, and the only way he could combat peoples nice comments, to keep himself safe was to turn that anger towards them. "What do you want?"

"I'm just making sure, Jesus," Wilson replied, the usual irritation hinting in his words that Maxwell hated, and that only made him more upset because he should be hating Wilson, not his tone of voice. "You haven't eaten any of your food. I don't want you wasting it."

Maxwell looked down at his plate and his stomach did a flip. He pushed it into Wilsons hands roughly. "I'm not hungry. Go give it to someone else, or to yourself, if you're so focused on my eating habits."

"Dear..." Wickerbottom said quietly, her tone of voice not stern but more exasperated. Maxwell was always the one to ruin the camps day, make everything worse, whether it was from getting into another argument, brooding around the campsite or just simply existing in a place he wasn't welcome. He could never make others happy, it was futile.

"Fine then," Wilson scoffed, taking the plate with him. Maxwell kept his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight as he grabbed the Codex next to him and opened it to a random page, one part reading and ninty-nine parts making sure others knew that he didn't want to be bothered.

When evening came nothing was better. Woodie had left for the day, thankfully, and Maxwell had to stay at camp and weave traps, giving him some peace, although the edginess of the morning never wore off. His picked at his dinner and glared at everyone who came within five feet of him, putting one ankle on top of the other legs knee as to curl in on himself as much as he could without being noticed. He had retired for bed, once again too early, but when he glanced back at the fire and Woodie caught his eyes, a gleam in them and a small, sickening smile on his lips as he cleaned his axe, he realized he couldn't go back to sleep. He grabbed his lantern from his tent and took off in a direction. Nobody commented, nobody asked.

He didn't come back until morning.

The next night was the same, except he couldn't get away with running off once it got dark. Maxwell had left to his tent, hesitating when he would usually take off his overcoat and eventually deciding against it, his suit becoming his armour in a strange, distorted way. Sleep, he knew was a long distant idea. Woodies' words still echoed in his head, how he 'didn't mind getting used to it', a heavy threat said in such a light way, mocking, as if it wasn't such a big deal. Was it, really? Perhaps Maxwell had been overreacting the entire time, he was supposed to be the king of rotten, with a heart to match. The bad deeds he had done in life would never add up to the pain others could inflict on him. Perhaps he was supposed to take it, like a bad discipline.

His mind wracked itself for hours, going in loops, he was unable to stop from thinking for long enough to close his eyes. He wondered if he would ever be able to sleep again.

Eventually his thoughts brought him to his feet. He tumbled out of his tent on shaking knees and sweaty palms, lantern in hand and walked his way over to the campfire. It was late, the moon high in the sky, and Wickerbottom was the only one awake. She was writing in a leather-bound book Maxwell watched her create herself, papyrus pages and silk holding it together. She looked up when Maxwell got close.

His words caught in his throat for the briefest moment before saying, "May I take a seat?"

"Of course," came Wickerbottoms reply. Maxwell sat down on the log, and in the back of his mind he realized he forgot the Codex in his tent. "Having trouble sleeping?"

It took a moment for him to realize she had spoken. "Hmm? Yes, for the past few nights now." In reality, he rarely ever slept, the threat of nightmares constantly lapping at his consciousness and keeping him staring at the ceiling until daylight broke out. If he did sleep, it was never long before he woke up in a sweat, cries stuck in his throat, Them whispering in his ear and hands grabbing his wrists. Of course, nobody had to know about that. Nobody wanted to know about that. They all had their own demons.

A few minutes later Wickerbottom spoke again, "Maxwell, have you been feeling alright recently? I've noticed you've been quite... agitated."

Maxwell opened his mouth to answer but a rock formed in his stomach with the sickening realization of Wickerbottom couldn't know. She couldn't know what happened, how Maxwell had been tarnished, broken, ripped from the seams. He could imagine her hearing it and scoffing, telling him that he deserved it.. She would yell at Maxwell for making up lies because Woodie was such a nice soul, he'd never hurt anybody. Word would get around and soon the camp would look at him different, see the broken remains of the king, like his statue knocked into pieces. They would laugh, they would judge. As if his pain ever amounted to anything, they would say, he should be lucky we even let him stay. They hated him, and weren't hesitant to state that fact. They made light jokes about him but never understood how deep they cut, like salt in wounds he created himself. Woodie would stay, Woodie would get all the pity for being called a monster and Maxwell -

Maxwell would get kicked out of the camp.

Even if they were to believe him, what would they do? Woodie was too useful to simply be banished. He handled practically all their wood supply, and with a smile. Maxwell did nothing useful. He was simply another mouth to feed, a dead weight, and every day there would be more reasons as to why they should cut him off. If he couldn't handle seeing the mans face, then he would never have to see it when they break down his meat effigy and take a spear to his gut. The air was cold, yet he had felt sweat grow on the nape of his neck. He didn't want to die, deep down. He deserved it, he deserved it so much, and he could never deny it, he'd repeat it till the day he finally kicks the bucket. But inside him, far into what he thought was the charred remains of his soul, he was scared. He wanted to see his family, he wanted to see Charlie, Jack, Wendy and Abigail, he wanted to live. He just wanted to be a magician. But everything fell apart. Everything fell apart and his life was crumbling, soot in his hands and he was desperately trying not to let it seep through his talons, it was getting harder to breathe but all he could think of was the fear, being held down, he never wanted it like this. He never wanted things to turn out the way they did, everything would have been perfectly fucking fine if he didn't -

"Maxwell, dear, hey." Maxwells eyes darted up from the fire he didn't even realize he was staring it, he realized that he hadn't responded to Wickerbottom but now he couldn't, now no matter how much he breathed he couldn't get enough air, he was running out of time, running out of life and Wickerbottom could never know, nobody could know how he was breaking. His hands shook violently and he pulled himself away when she tried to touch his shoulder, like her hands were dirty. His hands were dirty.

"Look at me." And so Maxwell did, terrified eyes and tightened pupils looking up at the lady, scared he would be yelled at, scared he would be mocked, scared of purely existing. He was losing control, losing control of his body, he never had control in the first place. He was so cold but sweat grew on the nape of his neck. "I want you to focus on breathing, alright, dear? That's all you need to do."

Her voice was so soft, so gentle, Maxwell almost felt like crying. He tried to match her breathing but there wasn't enough air around him, the space was getting cramped, the horrifying realization that they could never escape. Woodie was fast asleep in his tent and Maxwell couldn't escape him, his hands were bound. But Wickerbottom kept breathing, kept saying soft things Maxwell couldn't take in at first, but with enough patience started to tune in to, background noise to the demons clawing behind the doors he had tried to close.

Wickerbottom had moved from kneeling in front of him to sitting next to him, and the movement made his head spin even more. Everything was tilting on its side and Maxwell still couldn't get enough air no matter how long she attempted to get him to breathe. His hands opened and closed in tight balls at his side, moving from the smoothed wood to his pant leg, grabbing for something, anything. Eventually, Wickerbottom had seen this, and asked, "Would you like to hold my hand?"

Maxwell looked down at where she placed her hand, palm up, between the two of them. He was still spiraling, unable to form enough thoughts to feel safe, all he felt was fear and panic and a horrible, horrible feeling he couldn't find the words for, but he took her hand despite the pain. It was rough, grasping for it messily, wishing he could feel the contact through his leather gloves. He adjusted his grip over and over, focusing all his energy into that one touch, that small manageable touch, until she put her other hand over his, blanketing it.

Maxwell took a quick, uneven breath, and then another, and soon his throat closed up, his eyes stung, he put his other hand to his mouth and curled in even tighter on himself. It happened in slow motion, all the fear and emotions growing like a wave and finally crashing, stopped building up and finally released. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned into Wickerbottom, desperate for any comfort, anything that would tell him that he would be okay, that he would survive the next ten minutes. She wrapped her arms around him and he grasped for her cardigan like it was the only thing keeping him afloat, sobs coming out harder as he dug his face into her shoulder, and she rubbed his back.

The fire had started to die down when he stopped crying, still reluctant to let go for the longest time. He pulled himself away, dabbing at his eyes using his handkerchief with shaky hands, still not letting go of Wickerbottoms'. Apologies slipped off of his tongue and Wickerbottom still managed to sooth him through it until the final of his panicked words came to stop. Silence loomed over them, the blood rush in his ears gone, now replaced by crackling fire and cricket and anything else out there.

Wickerbottom was still rubbing his back when she said, "Maxwell, love, something's bothering you." No accusations, no need for replies or apologies or anything else Maxwell wanted to spit up and run from. Maxwell scooted back closer to the librarian, shame not taking the best of him for once, sucking up all the comfort he could be getting, everything he needed with such desperation.

Eventually, he spoke. "Something happened. Something I cannot say." It was all he could explain, everything he needed to let out was wrapped up under the two sentences, forced down under the water.

She was rubbing his knuckles with her thumb. "And why's that?"

Maxwell sighed. "I would be making an accusation against another camp member," he started. "One that not only brings me a great deal of shame, but would also never be believed. I would be ridiculed at best, and perhaps expelled from the camp at worst." he could feel Wickerbottoms confusion and worry become more evident, but he feared saying any more would share too much.

"But it wasn't your fault?"

"It was an act against me," He explained. "There may have been things I could have done to prevent it, but... I hadn't thought of them at the time."

Wickerbottom shifted in her seat. "There would be no reason to force your exit from the camp, then. Not one I can see. If anything, we would be putting the punishment on the other camp member."

Maxwell shook his head. "If I were to be unable to coexist with the camp member, there would be no arguments as to who to evict. His usefulness very much outweighs mine."

"But he is still in the wrong. We won't keep a bad person simply because they have proven to be more useful, if usefulness had managed to be weighed out."

"Who would believe me, though? I barely believe myself."

"I would." Wickerbottom said, almost instantly. "I would believe you, Maxwell. It's proven to have damaged you too much for it to simply be a lie." She adjusted to look him in the eyes. "Nobody deserves to feel unsafe in the camp. While I won't make you say anything you don't wish, I want you to know that you can always come to me, alright?"

Maxwell wasn't sure how to respond. He searched in her eyes for something to show she was lying, something that proved how she was simply forced to be kind, but it never came. He blinked at her, and then moved back to their original position, his head on her shoulder. "Thank you," was all he could muster.

They stayed like that for a bit longer, until Wickerbottom said, "You should be getting sleep, dear. You must be exhausted."

Maxwell shook his head. "I can't... I can't sleep in my tent. Not right now."

Wickerbottom pulled his shoulder lightly, leaning him towards her thighs. "You can sleep here. I'll wake you before the others wake."

Maxwell wanted to argue, his pride hanging over his head, but the exhaustion had truly caught up from his panic attack. His eyelids felt heavy, his bones hurt, and he let himself lay down without a complaint.

Sleep came easy that night.

But, as time proved again and again, and how Maxwell was soon surely going to understand, problems couldn't be fixed with soft words and phrases, gentle touch and a night of rest.

Because demons don't like to be acknowledged, and they would pierce through your skin in any attempts to keep their claws hidden from open eyes.

Maxwell had gone back to sleeping in his tent. He had trusted Wickerbottom words like they were lines of a gospel, but in doing that he had altered their meaning. Turned them into more than she said, promises to protect him from monsters she wasn't aware of.

One couldn't stay in camp forever, and when they weren't crafting or building or revising, they would break out into buddy groups for exploring. While farms kept them thriving through all the seasons, further in the Constant came things that couldn't be farmed in such high demand. Mining rocks, chopping down large amounts of trees, keeping spider nests under wraps and preventing beefalo from overpopulating.

It started out as a simple statement, made by Wilson as he was searching through the chests: "We don't have very much wood left."

"Enough for winter?" Willow asked, pulling and twisting grass into rope.

Wilson hummed. "Definitely not. Someone should be going out today and getting some, before the weather gets crappy."

Woodies' loud voice startled Maxwell much more than he would have liked to admit. "Why didn't you say so earlier? You know I'd go for a good tree-choppin' any day!"

"Would you, Woodie? That'd be great. But you'll need a partner." Wilson scanned around the campfire. Maxwell did so as well as he strummed his fingers over the cover of the Codex. Most people had plans set in stone, enough that the logging trip would probably have to be postponed. That is, until both Wilson and Woodies' gazes fell on Maxwell himself.

"Maxwell doesn't have much going on, does he?" Woodie asked, and Maxwell felt cold blood run through his veins, he wondered if it was unhealthy that his arms had gone numb just by hearing the words. Wilson had looked over at him for a response, and it felt as though everyone was watching him intently.

"I, I do, actually," Maxwell cleared his throat, hands tensing into fists, claws attempting to push into his flesh.

"Don't be silly, with your book we could take out the entire forest in a day!" Woodie said.

"Yeah, Maxwell. Go with Woodie today, the two of you should be able to get enough wood for the next season or so if you head out now. Just watch for Tree Guards," Wilson agreed, and Woodie had already started to get up and prepare a backpack for the expedition. Maxwell had looked over at Wickerbottom, wishing she would have been able to see the fear in his eyes when Wilson couldn't, but she wasn't looking his way. She was none the wiser, blind to what Maxwell had never been able to tell her.

Any arguments would have just soured the mood of the already dimming camp, made Maxwell more so the center of attention than he would have liked, but the pure fear of what would happen in Woodies' company made him take a step towards Wilson, mind racking itself for excuses he could pull, hands twisting through themselves in nervous twitches. Woodie patted his back and leaned in, his voice struck fear in the deepest part of him. "We're going to have fun today, eh?" The threat hung in the air without ever being spoken of, and the glimmer in the mans eyes only reminded Maxwell that there was no escaping today.

His hands shook, and he kneeled by his backpack to hide his legs nearly giving out. When Wilson came up to him and reminded him to pack extra nightmare fuel, the only safe response he could bring was a grumble, for he feared his voice would break along with the façade.

Maxwell felt fear bubble up again, simmering in the pit of his stomach and raising to his chest, a pot about to boil over. It was too similar to the night he spent with Wickerbottom, the feeling of the world crashing around him, unable to grasp the familiarity of comfort. But now Wickerbottom wasn't there to hold his hand and whisper comforting phrases. It was just Woodie and Maxwell, walking towards the forest, every step bringing him further from the camp, closer to where he could scream and nobody would answer.

"You've been awfully quiet, Max. How're you holding up?" Woodie asked, out of the blue, and his breath caught in his throat for a second too long, the irrational fear that he may never breathe again while around the man.

Maxwell didn't respond, he adjusted his backpack and kept his eyes glued to the grass. Oh, how a king had fallen. He remembered, vaguely, as if the memories weren't his own, but transplanted from Their eyes, how he would stand above Woodie, smooth voice repeating the same lines he taunted every time Woodie failed in survival. It wasn't him, was never him, and most of the feelings were disconnected. The shadows couldn't feel anything other than hatred. To be able to feel more took more of Maxwells' power, and They hadn't bothered with something to trivial. Still, he attempted to remember, attempted to fill in the gaps. If he was back there, what would he do? A powerful God looming over his plaything like a cat taunting a mouse, watching the poor sod run around collecting twigs and grass, hoping to survive the harsh night he had died in the hands of too many times. If he were in that spot, would he do what he had done in the past? Would he continue to laugh at his sufferings, or torture him, proving that he was the strong one, that he was in control.

"Oh, don't be like that." Woodie's voice was still a shock, always a shock. "You can at least talk to me."

Part of him said he would, he would do horrible, horrible things to Woodie that made him sick to think about, made him question how human he was with the evil, corrupted thoughts that sloshed through him. But another part of him wished he was never that God. He wished he had never been born.

Maxwell didn't speak when they got to their destination. He let Woodies mindless rambles about the trees and the sun and how much time they had before they would head home wash over him, not like water but like acid, tearing at his skin. He dropped his backpack and pulled out nightmare fuel, the half-existing substance sloshing, yet never leaving the palm of his hand. He dropped it onto the ground with his tools and winced at the sharp pain as he willed them into existence. His head ached and he only became more paranoid of the world around him, everything moved and swayed almost like it were breathing, breathing and Maxwell questioned if he was breathing. Still, he picked up an axe and moved further into the forest, where Woodie wouldn't be bothered by his half-lucid harvesters. As much as Maxwell loathed work, he knew if he stood still for too long the world would start to tilt, eyes poking out of the darkness and shadows showing without mass to block the light. So he chopped.

He only got one tree felled, five more between the two choppers, one finishing off its tree and the other starting to strip branches from the base, when Woodie came up behind him.

"You know, I haven't been appreciating how you act around me."

Maxwell spun on his heels and a sound got stuck in his throat. His eyes searched for an exit, but his stomach dropped when he knew he was too far from base to ever possibly make a run for it. He knew he was, he always knew it, mind always figuring out the distance and repeating it in his head. Instead, he mustered up his courage and begged to any God that didn't exist that his voice wouldn't waver, and he hissed, "Don't lay a hand on me."

His shadow puppets stopped their work and stood in uptight positions, axes turned to swords. Woodie scoffed, pushing Maxwell with one hand against the tree. His puppets wavered and their weapons disappeared in smoke. "You think you're so tough?" Woodie barked a laugh, his movements open and wide, if they were a few feet apart they could have been passed off as friends sharing a joke. Woodie pushed himself onto Maxwell more, bracketing him with his arms. The world spun in circles, Maxwell could smell Woodies breath, piney with a layer of breakfast, they were too close and Maxwell felt like his head would explode. "You've gotta' be less uptight, Maxy. It doesn't look good on you."

Woodies hand fell to his crotch, his head dropping to Maxwells shoulder for a moment as he grabbed himself through the fabric. He adjusted, and Maxwell could feel him on his thigh, a sickness travelling between them, infecting him. Woodie had been thinking about it, clearly, and he tried not to think about how many times in the past he would dance across Woodies thoughts, impure and hated, sinned worse than the monsters around them. He heard a zipper going down and he felt sick, wondered if being sick would prevent what was about to happen. Woodie put a hand to his shoulder, pushing firmly, whispering, "Get on your knees."

And Maxwell did.

Fight or flight, they said, but they never talked about freeze. His puppets were in a stiff position, nightmare fuel thick into a dark substance, solidifying with Maxwells fear. Maxwell fell to his knees, face crumpling up and _why didn't he fight it?_ A hand was put to the back of his head. More orders.

Bile raised in the back of his throat as Woodie started. He didn't move, hands held too tight to his side, too scared to move his jaw in any way that could bring horrible, horrible pleasure to the man above him. _He was supposed to be the one above. He was supposed to be strong. They had promised him power._ Maxwell closed his eyes and his breath started to waver, panic rising too far as he chocked on the forced object. He didn't want this, he didn't want this. He wondered what would happen if someone would walk in on him, Wilson, or Wickerbottom. Saw what was happening to him, saw the horrors he had to go through. He sobbed when he realized they would walk in the other direction, disgusted looks on their features, taking it wrong, hurting him.

The hand on the back of his head tightened in grip and he started begging for someone to help him, anyone. Foolishly for another camp member, for Them, for something to stop what was happening, something to save him. When Woodie reached a climax he begged for Charlie.

He couldn't take it. His mind had unravelled, a ball of yarn, drenched in bleach and swallowed, wrapping around his intestines and ripping them out. The world had tilted, tinted monochrome and he couldn't see, couldn't feel, _he felt too much._ He couldn't stay in his body any longer, scared of what he became, husked and frayed. There was evil in him, even worse than himself, he needed to get it out. Claws scratched at his arm as he laid in his sorrows until Woodie had finished chopping and told Maxwell to get over himself. His puppets had left, he wasn't sure when, he wasn't sure if time could pass in a way his brain could take in. He was pulled to his feet with a cry and he was forced to stay up, weak at the hand of a predator. Camp was too far away but he didn't have time to prepare, to return from the last attack that sent him reeling.

The others cared so little, Woodie taking the attention off of him and onto their gains, somehow bouncing back, as if he had never done anything so vile. Maxwell couldn't bring himself to exist, thoughts in shambles, the world hurt his head. Had he ever thought he could feel okay, it seemed like such a lie.

He wanted to die. So, so bad. He always wanted to, always wanted to rid the world from his plague, kill a monster even before he saw it in himself. But he couldn't die. Death was meaningless in the Constant, only slightly held together with the loss of the camp members. He knew they wanted him dead, he knew he wanted himself dead, but the only thing he feared more than their harsh gazes and pure hatred was being alone. It clenched at his heart and made him curl in fear, the horrible idea of being alone in a world he created. He couldn't be alone, not again, not after so many years. The throne taunted and pulled and swayed and he wanted to die but he _couldn't_. It was all too much, too much, too much too muchtoomuchtoo -

So he went to Wilson.

They had shared their own demons in the past, not just of their sins in the Constant but of before, when monster weren't a threat but your own family, or the city outside. He always kept his distance, but loaned an open ear for Wilson to speak to. Yet when Maxwell pulled Wilson away from the camp, hand held tight around his wrist as if letting go meant letting go of everything he held dear, all he could do was sob.

Wilson responded in shock, so much that Maxwell thought Wilson would push him away, push him into the growing darkness and let it eat him alive. But Maxwell pushed himself onto the shorter man, and when Wilson realized his pain overrun his ability to speak his horrors he held him back, arms wrapped protectively, making soft sounds to Maxwells' shuddering cries. His entire body heaved with the force of them, noises of anguish forced their way up his throat, he pushed against Wilson with all his weight, taking in, _needing_ any support he was willing to give. Holding up a building that was falling down, crashing and killing everything.

They stayed there until the sun set over the trees and the sky darkened, their lanterns illuminating his pain in all of its horrible tears. Wilsons shirt was ruined by the end of it, tears and other disgusting fluids soaking it, but Wilson didn't care. Maxwell had fallen to his knees and Wilson fell with him, until every last ounce of energy was sucked from the older man, left tired and heavy in the others arms.

They had ventured back to camp, Wickerbottom the only face left at the fire, concern too painful on her features as they sat down next to her. The flames were just a bit too high, lapping at his knees, and the air behind him was too cold. The winds whistled and a spider in the distance hissed. Wickerbottom held Maxwells' hand.

"It's Woodie."

And for the first time, Maxwell could breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading until the end!
> 
> To be honest, I'm not too proud of this. The story falls apart near the end, and I wasn't sure how to fix it without rewriting it all. Not to mention, every character is extremely ooc. I actually feel kinda bad for making Woodie a bad person, but when I started writing I had no idea who to peg as the antagonist. ((tbh i'll probably delete this eventually - there's so much I need to fix and revise))
> 
> Advice / criticism is welcome! Have a nice day!


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